Falls ebbs away in
this turning season. The
leaves no longer sing, now
aching to be
earth.
This gathering at
forest floor of raw
dying is primal, the
smell is sui generis, an
olfactory echo of the
odor of earth and birth
both, replete with
whiffs of bird’s
song and
the aroma
of being green: shot
through with chlorophyll, racing to leaf’s skin
And now this once verdant
blush lies at the feet of this
sylvan source
of life
of death
and everything
in between.
To everything there is a season…
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“The aroma of being green” is such an evocative phrase, and interesting, too, since the aroma of autumn isn’t necessarily ‘green’ like the smell of cut grass, but rather is that other, complex aroma you hint at: decaying leaves, rain, dirt, wet rock.
We tend to think of autumn as crisp and clear, but just as often it’s sodden and heavy. Your line about fall ebbing away sets that tone perfectly.
Thanks Linda, I’m glad to know that it landed well for you. I think this poem came, in part, out of a conversation with a neighbour about getting rid of leaves off of our lawns. I just thought a bit about our urban ways make us forget how things really work. I just wanted to capture a bit of that.
I’d say you captured it rather well, Allen. I just read the poem again, and like it even more.